


Who Dares, Wins

by Santillatron



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Brief period-typical antisemitism, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Crowley don't hurt me, Happy Ending, Humour, I don't know what this ridiculousness is, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Semi Non-Con, Soldier Aziraphale (Good Omens), Torture, WW2, what are tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25057375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santillatron/pseuds/Santillatron
Summary: Aziraphale is an officer in the British Army. He hears about a fellow Brit captured somewhere he shouldn't have been, who is being kept far behind enemy lines and is apparently holding up miraculously well against the German methods of persuasion.He absconds to rescue him accompanied by a small band of men who decide to tag along, and the rest, as they say, is history...
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 167





	Who Dares, Wins

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for this ridiculousness. I play fast and loose with historical accuracy here because it's unsurprisingly hard to find accurate information about the time period. 
> 
> There are some descriptions of violence, but I'm not sure if they're graphic enough for the warning to apply? If you think so, please let me know and I'll add it on. 
> 
> Also, Crowley is going to encourage some rather unsavoury activity. He knows full well it's never going to actually happen, but again I'm not sure if it counts as non-con so if you think I should use the warning please let me know.
> 
> Historically this would be around the same time as the Church scene. Originally I said you could choose if it was before or after, but I have decided this is before, and why Fraulein Schmidt recognises him. And possibly why she also looks at him like that... 
> 
> There's a few words of German in here, I'll put translations at the end, but the only one you really need up front is 'Schlange' which means snake. 'Schlangerling' would be an affectionate form of it.

“‘Ere, Jones, you seen ‘ow the Lieutenant looks up every time the telegrams are ‘anded out?”

“Prolly waitin’ on a message from ‘is sweetheart.”

“Maybe, but don’t you think we’d ‘ave ‘eard ‘im talk about ‘er if ‘e ‘ad one?”

“Just eat up Smithy, else you drop it again.”

* * *

“TELEGRAMS!”

The snap of everyone’s heads turning to that welcome sound was almost audible. Once they were all handed out, Aziraphale approached. 

“Anything there for me, Private?” He asked hopefully. 

“No, sorry Lieutenant, no telegrams for you again today. You expectin’ sumfink?”

“No, more, er, hoping for something. Never mind, Carry on.” He dismissed the soldier with a wave of his hand and trudged back to his tent. They’d been camped out for a couple of weeks now, and nothing. Nothing at their last posting either. In fact, he hadn’t heard from Crowley for over a month now, and he was starting to get worried. 

* * *

“So. Meine kleine Schlange. We find ourselves once again at an imp-arse. What are we to do? Yesterday we have tried all the friendly methods of asking our questions, and yet you seem so reluctant to give us our answers. Und so, we have run out of friendly options. I’m sorry Herr Schlange, I really am, but you leave us no choice.”

“Impasse.”

“What?”

“It’s ‘impasse’, not ‘imp-arse’ you moron.”

“I see.”

The blow that followed would have sent him and the chair he was tied to across the room, if it hadn’t been bolted to the floor.

* * *

“You ‘eard the la'est from the front?”

“No, ’s it good or bad?”

“Dunno. I ‘eard the Jerrys caught someone way into their territory wearing British uniform. Apparently they’ve been holding him for a couple o’ weeks wai'in for the old Gestapo to turn up. Got nuffink.”

“Nuffink?”

“Yeah, ‘oever ‘e is, ‘e’s ‘ard as nails apparently. Jus’ laughs at ‘em.”

“Yeah, or ‘e’s suicidal.”

“Prob’ly that an’ all.”

“Lance Corporal.” The two men jumped and spun round, looking at Aziraphale guilty as they stood to attention. “Are you spreading rumours again?”

“Sir, no sir! Don’t fink this one’s a rumour, sir!”

“Which one?”

“The Jerry’s ‘ave someone, way behind enemy lines, sir! ‘Eard they were gettin’ all in a tizzy ‘cause they can’t get ‘im to talk, sir! Had to call in the Gestapo sir! Word is ‘e’s ‘ard as nails, but nobody seems to know which platoon ‘e came from, sir!”

“Oh, and I suppose this came from your usual ‘sources’ did it Lance Corporal?”

“Sir, no sir! Came through the wireless, sir! They’re trying to find his platoon to find out why he was so far into enemy territory, sir! They want to know what information he might be privy to giving up, sir!”

“And you say nobody’s claimed him?”

“Nossir!”

“I don’t suppose they gave us any other information to go on?”

“Only that he’s got red hair and a tattoo of a snake on his face, sir! Sounds a bit of a wrong’un if you ask me, sir! Prob’ly one of ‘em flash bastards in the Air Corps sir!”

“Sir? You ok, sir? Only you’ve gone all pale… Well, paler than usual sir. Sir? Sir?!”

“Yes, dismissed!” Aziraphale called out over his shoulder as he ran for his tent. There was only one person that could fit that description. 

It would certainly explain why he hadn’t heard from him. 

* * *

Crowley grunted at the next blow as it hit him on the other side of his face. He had resolutely not turned the other cheek, he would like the records to show, they just hit it anyway. For a human, this one was quite strong. And clearly enjoyed his job. But the Gestapo tended to, it was somewhat of a hiring requirement to enjoy calculated violence. 

Another blow to his cheekbone caused his head to turn far further than it should have been capable of, a fact that seemed to intrigue the Gestapo officer as he took a step back to admire his work. 

Crowley was stripped to his underwear, and tied to a cold, metal chair in the middle of a very clinical looking room. It was probably the most upright he had ever sat and this wasn’t endearing him to the practice. He also didn’t care for the ominous drain in the floor under where his chair was bolted. 

They’d been a little alarmed when they took his sunglasses, but he’d managed to pass it off as an eye injury. Even so, Nazis were a superstitious bunch and they showed a level of caution with him that implied they suspected he wasn’t quite what he seemed. Handing him over to the Gestapo had been a bit of a setback, however. So now he was being interrogated. It was not a friendly room, but these were not friendly people. So far he had a swollen, black eye, a split lip, and a laceration to his cheekbone that was bleeding quite profusely, mingling with the blood that had poured out of his temporarily broken nose. He could feel his jaw swelling on one side as well, and knew it was going to be a ghastly purple colour under the stubble before long. He lolled his head around to look at his captor with one, half open eye. And laughed. 

“That all you got?”

The officer stepped forward and cradled his jaw with one hand. “Nein, meine hübsche Schlange, we are just getting started.”

Crowley looked up at him and licked his lips slowly as he trailed his gaze down the officer’s chest. 

“Wunderbar.” He said quietly, noting the flash of excitement in his captor’s eyes. 

* * *

Aziraphale was most definitely not frantically shoving everything into his pack, he was methodically stowing his kit in a highly efficient manner. It just looks frantic to the untrained observer.

“-Let’s ask the- ‘ere, what’s going on Lieutenant? We got new orders? Why’re you packin’ up all frantic like?” 

Aziraphale turned to the soldiers who had just walked in. They were good lads. Young, but with an uncomplicated view of the world that usually came with age. They all got it eventually, that’s what war tended to do to people. 

“No Smithy, no new orders, and I’ll thank you to not refer to my movements as ‘frantic’. I’m heading out for a bit on a solo mission. You lads stay here and await further instruction.”

“Whaddya mean ‘solo mission’ sir? I din’t ‘ear of no ‘solo missions’ on the wireless.”

Aziraphale ground his teeth. He didn’t have time for this.

“No Jones, you wouldn’t have done. Special orders. It’s a really dangerous mission, and I didn’t want to get you chaps involved. Too risky.”

The two young men looked offended. 

“With all due respect sir, we’re at war. It’s all risky.” And Aziraphale had to concede he had a point there. 

“Yes, but this is more risky than normal. I’m heading behind enemy lines. It’s far too dangerous for you lads.”

The two men looked at each other. 

“You’re going after ‘im, ain’t you sir.”

“I don’t know what you mean Private Smith.”

“The red-head, you’re going to get ‘im, ain’t you sir. Is ‘e a friend of yours then?”

Aziraphale paused as he tightened his pack’s straps. 

“I couldn’t say he’s a friend, no. But I do owe him a great debt.” He said without turning around. 

“Well then sir, you’ll be needing some support, won’t you.” Jones said, opening negotiations.

“I told you Lance Corporal Jones, this mission is classified, and far too dangerous for you.”

“Pardon my French sir, but that’s bullshit.”

“Lance Corporal!"

“Well it is sir. There’s no mission, is there. You’re going AWOL to go get ‘im, aren’t you.”

The pause before Aziraphale spoke, said all that needed to be said. 

“I think you need to think very hard about your next course of action, Lance Corporal.” He said very carefully. 

Smith and Jones looked at each other, then back at Aziraphale. 

“We’re coming.” They said in unison.

“You need a guide, and I know whereabouts they’re 'olding ‘im.” Jones said. 

“We don’t leave one of our own in the lurch, sir.” Smith said.

And before Aziraphale could say anything else, they slunk back out of the tent and made their way casually, but efficiently across to their own quarters. 

Aziraphale didn’t know whether to be proud of his men, or feel guilty for what he was dragging them into. How could you tell a soldier that the person they were going off to rescue was not only not ‘one of their own’, but the very act of saving them would probably condemn their souls for all eternity. He’d figure something out. Crowley would know how to make sure that didn’t happen. Aziraphale was pretty sure he did it all the time, not that he’d ever ask him. He pushed the guilt and fear down, and went to fill up his water bottle. By the time he got back to his tent it was full of men. Half his platoon were there, fully packed up and ready to roll out. Aziraphale stared at them. 

“Like I said sir, we don’t leave one of our own in the lurch.” Smith said. 

“The rest of the lads will cover for us for a few days, give us a head start.” Jones said. 

“Look lads, I cannot guarantee you won’t all get in serious trouble for this…” Aziraphale tried. 

“With all due respect, sir, we’re soldiers in the army stationed ten miles behind the front line in a godforsaken war. What else can they do to us?” Came another voice. Private Green by the sounds of it. 

“Well lads, as your commanding officer I cannot tell you I’m proud of you. I absolutely cannot tell you I am very grateful. The only thing I can tell you is that you are certainly not ‘godforsaken’.” As he said it, the sky outside the tent cleared enough that a shaft of low afternoon sunlight managed to pierce the open door flap, and not for the first time the assembled soldiers wondered at the way his hair managed to catch the light so perfectly as to look like a halo. They may not have had faith in God right now, but they certainly had faith in Lieutenant Fell, which was rather smart, because he was _there_. 

“Now, Lance Corporal Jones. I absolutely forbid you to tell me which way we should head.” He ordered, blue eyes twinkling gently in the golden sunlight. 

“Then I recommend you do not follow me, sir.” Jones responded with a smirk as he slipped out the back of the tent and into the woodland behind. 

Aziraphale was the last one out. He whispered a quick blessing on the rest of his platoon that they would come to no harm while he was away, took one last look around his tent to check he’d got everything, and filed out after the others. 

The lads left behind were true to their word, and it was a couple of days before anyone worked out they were gone.

* * *

“So, Herr Schlange. Are you going to tell me your name at least?” The gestapo officer asked, for the umpteenth time from his position sat backwards on a spare chair, chin resting on his arms. “After all, I have given you mine…”

“‘Schlange’ will do just fine Herr Richter.” Crowley drawled. Yesterday’s blood from his face had dried where it ran down onto his chest and matted into the smattering of chest hair, and it was getting itchy. He had some wonderful bruises on his torso to complement the ones on his face, although he'd drawn the line at the cracked rib. The ropes around his wrists and ankles were starting to chafe, and he had been sitting still for far too long. He tried to jiggle one leg with little success. This was day three, and his patience was wearing thin. 

“‘Sides, you haven’t told me why on earth a Gestapo officer such as yourself would be this close to the front. You got something good planned?” Crowley asked casually. 

“Why would I be telling the likes of you?” Richter asked, mildly surprised. 

“Weeeeell… ’s not like I’m getting out of here, is it. No _harm_ telling me.” Crowley said, looking at him with a challenging look in his one functioning eye. He could heal the other, but Richter was watching him like a hawk and it would look rather odd if he saw it happen. 

“No, no, that is not how this works. I am supposed to ask _you_ the questions, you are supposed to give _me_ the information I want, so I don’t have to persuade it out of you.” Richter said as he stood up to move behind Crowley and open the door. Crowley heard the sounds of equipment being wheeled in, and suddenly there were two German soldiers putting a large bowl of water at his feet, and a large cart trundled into view. The soldiers disappeared again, although Crowley could still feel them in the room behind him, watching. 

“Und so, meine entzückende Schlange, we will see just how much persuasion you can take.” Richter said with a ghastly grin as he held up two clamps with wires trailing from them. 

“Oh I can take it.” Crowley said, holding Richter’s gaze, his voice low and enticing. “I’ll take everything you can give me and I’ll still be begging for more. Although perhaps we should give you a safe word. How about... Aardvark?” And there it was again, that flash in his eyes, the unmistakeable scent in the air. Richter was enjoying this far more than he was letting on, and Crowley would be a spectacularly bad demon if he didn’t encourage it. It barely counted as a temptation, but it was the look of the thing, and it would count on his paperwork. Maybe he’d even snag the two soldiers guarding the door as well. 

The first shock was short and sharp and left him gasping for air he didn’t need. His corporation protested quite strongly at having an electrical current applied to it, but if Crowley had to describe it, it would be somewhere between Falling, and the tingly feeling he got when Aziraphale looked at him when he didn’t know Crowley could see him. Perhaps that was his strategy, think of Az-

The second shock was unexpected and Crowley couldn’t help the whine that escaped. He just about managed to keep himself human shaped. It wouldn’t do for them to suddenly be faced with an eight foot serpent of demonic heritage. 

Yet. 

“Now you have had a taste we will see if you have changed your tune.” Richter said, watching Crowley writhing in the seat, pulling at his bonds and panting. Crowley quickly sent some very specific commands to very specific parts of his anatomy. This had to look real. Flagpole hoisted, his movements stilled, then he slowly looked up at Richter, the grin already forming on his face, albeit lopsided thanks to the various swellings. He was sweating now, his body slick with a thin sheen of moisture in the cool air. He could see Richter evaluating him, appraising him, and clearly enjoying what he was seeing. 

“Do it again.” He said hoarsely, panting just a bit more than he needed, lips hanging open. 

Richter raised one eyebrow, and flicked the switch again, watching all the time.

Crowley’s whole body locked up, back arched, his jaw tightened almost enough to crack his teeth as the current tore through him, and then it was gone. He slumped into the chair, let his legs fall as wide as possible and looked up at Richter as he licked his cracked lips. 

“You tease.”

Another flash, another wave of lust in the air. 

Richter walked right up to Crowley, put his face right in front of Crowley’s own bloodied, mangled one, looking it over with professional pride. 

“You are enjoying this, are you not.” He stated, placing a hand high on Crowley's thigh. It wasn’t a question. 

“No more than you are.” Crowley responded, and it was true. Technically. 

“What are you hoping to gain from this display, Schlangerling? You think if I like you I’ll go easy on you?” Richter removed his hand to reach back and flip the switch again, and Crowley was treated to a close up of the man’s expression as his body arched from the searing pain again. He looked a lot like Hastur. 

Crowley was getting some worrying signals from his heart, but as he didn’t really need it anyway he let it shut down for a bit. The clamps were digging into his arms, and he guessed a normal human body would probably be singed quite badly by now. Fortunately, he was fireproof. 

He let out a loud moan as he once more slumped in the chair. “C’mon Richter baby, just a little more, or is this my punishment? You going to keep me going without any satisfaction? I don’t think even the Spaniards were as cruel as that. Fuck it, don’t even need the shocks, you could probably finish me off yourself, get us both a happy ending.” The thought of it made his insides lurch, but it was never going to happen. Richter was not the one in control here, he just hadn’t seen it yet. 

Crowley’s head snapped round again as another blow landed on his jaw. This one strong enough to dislodge a tooth. He felt around as his mouth filled with blood. A premolar, nothing major. If he lost a fang he’d have to have a bit of a rethink, but a premolar could be replaced fairly easily. 

“You think I would dirty my body with a filthy Jewish pig?!” Richter shrieked. It wasn’t actually a ‘no’ though, was it?

Crowley turned his head to the other side and spat out the tooth along with a fair amount of his own blood. He flashed Richter another smirk, this one crimson as the blood coated his remaining teeth before it dribbled out the side of his mouth. He let it get to his chin before he stuck his tongue out and slowly licked it. 

“I think you want to, don’t you.” He stated. 

Richter turned bright red with fury. “Raus!” He shouted at the guards, and they left in a flurry of salutes and dashing feet. So much for bonus souls. 

Richter leaned down again, suddenly calm as a mountain breeze. 

“What do you think is going to happen, süße kleines Ding?” He grabbed a handful of Crowley’s hair and yanked his head back. “Do you think your little games will tempt me? Do you think it will make me untie you?”

Crowley looked up at him. They’d been at this for nearly three days now, and he was fed up. Richter’s soul was only ever going down. Time to end this.

“Is it working?”

Richter laughed. He stood upright, not letting go of Crowley’s hair. 

“Schlangerling, if I wanted to fuck you I wouldn’t even need to untie you.” He stepped forward, so Crowley’s face was directly in line with his crotch. Which was unmistakably bulging. “I could just use that smart mouth of yours as I wished. Or is that what you want? You want me to use you?” Richter had his head on one side now, contemplating the idea. 

Crowley dragged his head forward towards the bulge, keeping eye contact, and let his mouth drop open in invitation. He vaguely registered some excitable vibrations coming up through the ground. Something was going on outside so this needed to be quick. 

Richter chuckled with glee, and shoved Crowley face into his crotch, hard. 

Unfortunately, he missed the way Crowley’s teeth became inexplicably longer and more pointed, and his jaw seemed to unhinge quite dramatically in the second or so between the shoving and the contact. 

Richter let out a low moan, which turned into a scream as Crowley bit down. Hard. 

* * *

Aziraphale was most emphatically not leading half his platoon on an unsanctioned rescue mission. They were categorically not stalking through the woodland, heading for a town on the front line where they had the best chance of crossing. They absolutely would not be advancing several miles into enemy territory just to fetch one man who may or may not be already dead or wishing he was.

He wasn't a man, for a start. 

One thing they were doing however, was having miraculous amounts of good luck on their journey. There were any number of small copses and large rocks where they could take cover. The town itself seemed fairly deserted, the occupying soldiers busy with some sort of explosion that happened on the other side of it just as they got there. The occasional German soldiers they did encounter seemed to all suffer from a similar equipment failure or clothing malfunction when they tried to raise their weapon at the little band of insurgents.

Gradually each man started to wonder a little more seriously if Lieutenant Fell hadn’t been onto something when he said God hadn’t forsaken them. 

* * *

“What do you mean Major, how have you lost nine men? And speak up, this line is awful.”

“It’s Fell’s division sir, they’ve gone AWOL, last seen heading for the front.”

“L Division? What the blazes is ‘L Division’? And why are they heading for the front? Have we sanctioned this?”

The Major pinched the bridge of his nose. “No sir. Although the men here seemed to think it was some sort of covert mission behind enemy lines.”

“Well find out what the devil is going on Major! That’s an order! I will not have insubordination in my unit! We are the Welsh Guards, Major. We protect, we do not mount covert operations!”

“Yes, sir.”

The Major hung up the radio receiver and sighed. He’d leave it a few days, and with any luck, this would become someone else’s problem. 

* * *

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant! I’m picking up something on the radio!” Came a frantic whisper from the middle of the group. 

“What is it, Lance Corporal Delain?” Aziraphale hissed. 

“I think they’re on to us sir. There’s chatter on the radio about a rogue platoon heading for the front. They’re calling us ‘L Division’ sir.”

“‘L Division? Milk Bottle have you gone mad?” Jones scoffed. 

“Irrespective of the radio chatter, we’re too far in now for them to catch us up before we complete our mission. Let’s keep moving lads.” Aziraphale hissed. ‘L Division’ indeed.

It was getting late into the afternoon when they consulted the map and confirmed that the scattering of houses up ahead was their target. Aziraphale didn’t need to check to know Crowley was there. He could sense him, the prickling in his wings letting him know a demon was at work nearby. But he’d been getting other twinges as well. Twinges he didn’t like the feeling of one bit. He could feel short flashes of something similar to a distress call, and, being an angel, a demon in distress fired up certain violent instincts, and he did not like them at all. They needed to get Crowley and get out, before everything got a bit too incendiary. 

The buildings were guarded, at least three platoons' worth camped out around them. They followed a series of hedgerows, taking up a position behind a broken down tractor only a few metres from the edge of the camp when the next distress flare went out. Aziraphale had to earth the feeling somewhere, so he glared with all his might at the largest and most comfortable looking tent, and it promptly burst into flame in terror. 

In the confusion that followed, Aziraphale led his rag tag squad of men to the building in the centre of the compound. They flattened themselves along one side by the door, Jones watching around the corner. 

“Door’s locked. Won’t budge.” Smith hissed. Aziraphale glared at it. 

“Try it again Private.” He hissed back.

“It’s- Oh! It’s open…” Smith looked at it in surprise, but quickly pushed it all the way open and the group filed inside, weapons raised. 

Aziraphale put his arm up. “Lads, I’m very grateful to you for coming this far with me, but I cannot ask you to face what is in this room. I am asking you as a friend, stay outside and no matter what you hear, do not come in. Do I make myself clear?” He looked around at several unimpressed faces. 

“Do I need to make that an order?” He asked, in the cold tones his men knew only ever came out when it was really serious. Or they were out of cocoa. A general tone of compliance grumbled around the group, and Aziraphale nodded. 

“Bless you lads, you don’t deserve this war. May your futures be long and bright.” He said, before turning the handle on the door to the central room, and heading in. 

“Oh good Lord, Crowley.” Was the last thing the men heard before he shut the door behind him.

* * *

Richter screamed, and Crowley’s mouth filled with blood. Not his own this time, and it tasted foul. Richter grabbed a knife from his belt, and rammed it into the flesh of Crowley’s upper arm. But that wasn’t what made him let go, What made him let go was hearing four words spoken in a voice that sounded like heaven to his battered ears. Literally. 

“Oh good Lord, Crowley.” Aziraphale said, taking in the scene before him. Crowley heard the unmistakable sound of the door locking again behind him. 

“What _have_ you got yourself into this time.” 

Crowley let his fangs draw back down to more human teeth, and released the shaking Gestapo officer. Richter fell back onto the table behind him, white as a sheet. Crowley spat out the blood at him before turning towards Aziraphale. 

“Hello Angel. What are you doing here? I had this all in hand. Well, teeth.” He said. 

“Clearly.” Came the clipped reply as Aziraphale walked around him. He gasped slightly as he saw the state Crowley was in, then put his head onto one side, giving him a slightly disappointed look. 

Crowley huffed, and the ropes binding him to the chair disintegrated. He crossed his arms over his chest somewhat self consciously and attempted a pout, but it was rather hard with the bruising and swelling. Not to mention the fat lip. He was trying to sulk but the sight of Aziraphale in uniform was doing odd things to his corporation, particularly in the region of his only-just-remembered erection. He tried to get it to stand down, but it was having none of it. Mutinous thing. Betrayed by his own member. He brought a leg up onto the other knee to try and lessen its obviousness. 

Richter passed out, collapsing noisily to the floor, but they paid him no notice. 

“You didn’t write, and I was getting worried. How long have you been toying with this… this…”

“Nazi twat?” Crowley supplied. “Three days.”

“Three day- Crowley you could have got yourself killed! Well, inconveniently discorporated. And how were you going to explain _that_ on your paperwork.” Aziraphale admonished, gesturing to his one remaining item of clothing. The sight of so much of Crowley was proving rather distracting. He was trying not to look at it for decency’s sake, but he had an overwhelming urge to gather Crowley up in his arms and take him away to attend to his every need. Including that one.

“I’m _tempting_ , aren’t I?” He countered, hoping the angel wouldn’t bring it up again. Although he knew he would, in more ways than one. 

“You’re certainly something, I’ll give you that.” Aziraphale replied. And it just about sounded like mocking. “Now up you get. We’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got half a platoon waiting outside for you. And don’t forget to clean yourself up a bit.” He gestured at Crowley’s face, and Crowley raised his eyebrow back at him. 

“You dragged humans along?” He asked, pausing in his removal of the knife.

“I didn’t intend to, but my men are very loyal, and figured out what I was planning before I had a chance to leave. So yes. My men are outside, here to help rescue _you_. So be a dear and be rescued without any more fuss, would you? And for somebody's sake, put that _down._ ”

_Of course you have your own platoon_ Crowley thought, remembering once again that this was not Aziraphale’s first foray into military life. Crowley smirked at him, shoved on his sunglasses and went to stand, waiting, by the door. His belligerent anatomy wasn't following orders so with a small shimmy he swapped it for a less obvious one. 

“Rescue away, angel.”

Aziraphale tutted at him and strode towards the door. Just as he pulled the handle open, Crowley flung an arm over his shoulders and leaned against him in such a way that Aziraphale was forced to grab him by the waist to stop him from falling. He dropped his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, and let the angel take his full weight (he was delighted to realise Aziraphale hardly noticed, but he'd always been much stronger than he looked). 

And so Jones, Smithy, Green and Milk Bottle, along with the rest of the group were treated to the most dramatic rescue tableau Crowley could provide in his bloodied and beaten half naked state, as the door opened again. 

The men stared in horror and disbelief as Aziraphale unceremoniously dumped the wounded man on the floor with a loud tut. 

“Don’t mind him boys, he’s got an eye for theatrics.” He muttered as he yanked out the knife and turned away to face the external door. The unexpected contact combined with his previous urges was remarkably unsettling.

“Don’t suppose I could borrow some clothes gents? Chap can get awful chilly in only his unmentionables.” Crowley grinned at them.

The lads stared some more, then rapidly dived into packs and somehow managed to cobble together a uniform despite not remembering packing any. They couldn’t work out where the boots came from either, nobody tended to carry spare boots, and he hadn’t been wearing any when he came out, yet there he was, dressed as a soldier head to toe. They looked a bit closer. Where had he found Captain’s insignia from? 

“Do you need medical attention sir?” One of the men asked, as Crowley used some water to clean the majority of the blood off his face and wash out his mouth. He discretely miracled his chest clean for ease. 

“Don’t worry about me boys. ‘Tis but a scratch. I’ve had far worse than this.” He saw Aziraphale tense slightly, and turn to glance at him from the corner of his eye. Tingly. 

He straightened up and handed the canteen back to its owner. 

“Right boys. We’d better get you back before you’re missed, eh?” He said, walking over to stand next to Aziraphale where he was facing the frosted glass door that led outside again. 

“They’re out there, waiting for us.” Aziraphale said simply. 

“What’s the plan then?” Crowley asked. 

“You look after the-” Aziraphale turned to Crowley, glanced down him and saw the rank on his chest before looking back up to the grin as wide as his face. “Oh for Heaven’s sake Crowley. Might I suggest _sir_ , that you look after the troops while I go on ahead? Seeing as you are somewhat incapacitated _Captain._ ”

“Right you are, Angel, but not for their sake.” Crowley responded. And before any of the group had time to wonder at the ‘angel’, Aziraphale threw open the double doors and strode outside to the sound of erupting gunfire. Each man would swear that he saw a brief flash of what looked like huge white wings, before their Lieutenant drew a sword that he definitely hadn’t been wearing earlier, which then _lit on fire_ , before the doors swung shut. There were shouts, the staccato pops of gunfire, and odd, foreshortened screams. Jones went to follow outside but Crowley put an arm out to stop him. 

“Give him a minute, it’s been a while since he’s been able to stretch his w- his, uh, well yes, it’s been a while. Let him have some fun.”

They all stared, open mouthed at him, as he winced slightly. 

“Oooh, felt that one. He’s really pissed off.” Crowley muttered aloud, before it all went silent. 

“Right. You coming?” Crowley said as he swung open the door and casually sauntered out. 

Aziraphale was standing in the centre of the space between the surrounding buildings. Or, what was left of the buildings. He was calmly wiping down his sword with a piece of torn cloth. 

There had been three platoons waiting to ambush them outside, and now, there… weren’t. 

“Feeling better?” Crowley asked. “Looks like you were in dire need of some smiting Angel.” 

Aziraphale looked up at him with a very serious expression and for a moment it looked very much like his head was glowing, but it must have just been a trick of the light, backlighting through his hair or something. Yep. backlighting from the front. 

“Right. I think it’s high time we got back to camp. Don’t you?” He asked the assembled men who all nodded dumbly, staring at the sword. 

“We need some transport Crow-” Crowley pointed to his chest, to his three Garter Stars versus Aziraphale's own two. He rolled his eyes and huffed, before muttering “You insufferable demon” under his breath. 

“May I suggest we commandeer some transport _sir_. The truck over there should fit us all in, and we can close the back so nobody sees our uniforms.” He pointed to a canvas covered truck in the corner. 

All the men piled into the back, while Crowley leapt into the driver’s seat, and Aziraphale sat in the passenger side after closing up the back of the truck. His men were awfully silent, but he could deal with that later when they were all back at camp.

“Ready Angel?” Crowley asked. 

“Ready my dear. Don't dally, eh?” He said.

* * *

It didn’t take long with Crowley’s driving to get them back to camp. They drove in at night, under cover of darkness. At some point in the journey the truck had changed on the outside so now bore the British Army insignia rather than the Swastikas it had started out with. Aziraphale jumped out and went to check the coast was clear. Crowley went around the back to open up the back of the truck. 

Eight sets of eyes looked out at him fearfully. Ah yes. No seatbelts back here. Still, no sick either. Good lads. 

“Sorry guys, roads were a bit bumpy, eh? Now, we’re back in camp, and I’m guessing you’re going to have to answer some questions in the morning. Word to the wise eh lads, don’t go mentioning a flaming sword. Tends to get you sent to Hollymoor.” And with a wink, he stepped away and gave them space to disembark. They all filtered silently out into the night, and back to their own bunks without a single word. 

The next morning the Major left his tent to brew some coffee. There was still no word from Fell, and the last he heard an entire Nazi camp had been flattened a couple of days ago. He had no idea what the man was playing at, but it seemed the only one left there alive (several lower ranking soldiers had apparently absconded and rumours were they were hoping to defect), was a Gestapo officer who should never have been there in the first place. They found him in a terrible state, with some rather wince inducing injuries apparently. The Major had a horrible feeling that his life was about to get even more complicated. 

“Wotcha Major.” Came a drawl from behind him and when he turned around he nearly dropped his entire ration of coffee at the sight of the man. He looked like he had been hit by a truck, but seemed to be smiling. He peered at his uniform. 

“…Captain.” He said warily. 

“You’ll find your camp a bit fuller this morning Major. Few more heroes swanning about. Bit of advice, go easy on the lads. It’s been a tough few days on ‘em. Courageous acts of heroism and derring-do and all that.” 

“‘Derring-do’? You call mounting an unplanned, unsanctioned, and extraordinarily unwise operation to get over the front line into enemy territory, to track down and recover a person of unknown standing and vitality, ‘ _derring-do_ ’?” The major was incredulous.

“Yeah, well, they got me out, didn’t they? ‘Sides, who dares, wins. Amirite?” Crowley said, before unfolding himself from where he was leaning, and sauntering off. 

Significantly more complicated. 

* * *

A phone rang in a little patisserie in France. The baker answered it, took down a few details whilst trying not to to laugh, hung up and got to work. The order was collected and paid for, but he couldn’t describe who picked it up.

Later that afternoon the local hospital (under occupation by Nazis) had a delivery. A patisserie box was delivered to the room currently being occupied by one Gestapo officer Richter. He opened the box curiously, and went very pale.

Inside were three doughnuts. One round and one long, thin one, both filled with creme patissiere, nestled alongside one that started off round, but had a bite mark cut into one side. It was filled with strawberry jam, and had ‘Ruf mich an’ iced onto it. 

Richter threw it across the room, but not before he heard the nurses giggling outside. 

* * *

Captain Crowley was transferred back to Blighty shortly after their return, for medical attention and a full debrief. Lieutenant Fell accompanied him to get him safely home, and to face some questions himself. 

Meanwhile rumours began to circle around the camp about what exactly happened, and no two people could agree on what they saw. They only knew that neither Fell nor Crowley were what they appeared to be. It was decided that they must be from some secret task force that nobody knew about, and therefore it was too far above their security clearance to worry about. The only thing they could agree on was that there was a flaming sword involved somewhere, because Crowley had told them not to mention it, and it was decided that it must have been their insignia.

Word finally reached HQ of this fabled ‘L Division’, of how they were the best of the best, who could sneak in and out undetected, how they could overpower vastly larger forces, and how they could withstand three days interrogation at the hands of the enemy. HQ, not wanting to lose face, immediately set about making it a reality. 

* * *

As soon as Kriminalinspektor Richter was cleared for travel he was sent back home to Berlin to recuperate. The doctors had asked him what animal bit him, as the marks looked to be a very large snake which would be highly improbable for that region of France. They seemed to think he needed anti-venom, so wanted to know what the snake looked like. They took his insistence that it was a man as evidence of a hallucinogenic element to the venom, and just gave him everything they could think of. They did not want a Gestapo officer dying in their hospital, it tended to go badly when that sort of thing happened. 

And so Richter found himself trudging up the stairs to his own apartment in the centre of Berlin. He’d been sent to the front to discover why a certain Allierten unit was repeatedly evading them, and was tasked with finding the leak that must have been feeding them information. Instead, he found Crowley.

He made his way across his apartment, his cane clicking on the wooden floor. He’d been told to use it for a month, and not strain himself. 

The degree with which he flinched when he heard the voice was in direct contravention of these instructions, judging by the way the pain flared up. 

“Good Afternoon, Herr Richter.” Aziraphale said, from where he was sat in an armchair. 

“How did you get in here?” Richter demanded. It would be a very foolish man indeed to break into the home of a Gestapo officer. 

Aziraphale was sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap, looking to all the world like a kindly older man. The only memory Richter had of him was that he knew the bastard that had put him in his current state. 

“Oh I find a smile goes a long way.” Aziraphale said, demonstrating a soft smile that Richter realised was rather unnerving when you followed it up to his cold, steel eyes. 

“What do you want?” Richter asked. He was in no condition to fight someone who had apparently levelled three platoons. 

“I wanted to know if there was any hope for your soul.” Aziraphale said, and the calmness with which he said it, combined with the strange way he was looking at him, stopped Richter in his tracks and the laughter died in his throat. 

“I have to say it’s not looking very promising. Particularly with the mark Crowley has left on you.”

Richter involuntarily turned his hips away from that searching gaze. He had no idea what was going on, but he was increasingly suspecting that his life up to now had not been spent wisely. 

He looked back at the man in his home, and was alarmed to find his eyes had turned golden, and he seemed to be glowing slightly. 

“Normally this would be the point where I would say ‘be not afraid’,” Aziraphale told him, “but in your case, I would be afraid. I would be very afraid, knowing where you’re headed. Very afraid, indeed.”

Aziraphale blinked, and Richter’s cane clattered to the floor as he stumbled back, clutching his chest. He was desperately sucking in lungfuls of air but it didn’t seem to be having any effect. The last thing he saw as his vision faded and he slumped to the floor, was a… creature standing over him. He was a man-shaped glowing silhouette of light so bright it hurt right down into his soul, and he became aware of a feeling of being watched, of eyes everywhere, inspecting him and finding him woefully wanting. As his vision faded to nothing, huge wings unfurled and for the first time in his life Richter was afraid. No, scratch that, he was bloody terrified. 

The neighbours never reported anything of what happened that day. They certainly never reported the man with pale hair and friendly blue eyes that visited, but the next person to move into the vacated apartment was far kinder, and always ready to help the other occupants if they were in need. When they invited him to their next block meeting, he turned out to be just the man they needed to turn their disgruntled undercurrent into a fully fledged resistance force. 

* * *

Decades later, an angel and a demon found themselves in Chelsea at the National Army Museum, having exhausted all other available options. That, or Crowley was feeling nostalgic and wouldn’t admit it. 

They were both looking curiously at a small case, and the artefacts contained inside. The most prominent of which was a crest bearing the motto ‘Who dares, wins.’ Aziraphale was reading the brief information card that accompanied it. 

“Crowley, this bit here, the history, well it sounds remarkably like that time I found you with your mouth around that horrid Gestapo’s-”

“Yes, thank you Angel, I thought we agreed not to talk about that.” He hissed. 

“But Crowley, somebody clearly did talk about it. This sounds awfully like that little jaunt behind enemy lines might have spawned a whole new regiment. My dear, correct me if I’m wrong, but this is looking very much like I started the SAS...” Aziraphale looked at him with a mixture of guilt and mirth. Crowley looked a bit harder at the items in the case. 

“Looks like you might well have done Angel. Blimey. If I’d known that Major was going to get this excited about it I’d have thought of a better line than that.” Crowley grumbled. 

“Oh I don’t know. I think it suits you, Captain Crowley.” 

“Carry on like that and I’ll have you court-martialed for insubordination Lieutenant Fell.” Crowley growled. 

“Is that a promise?” Aziraphale purred. 

“Yeah, if you’ve still got the uniform.”

“Well that depends. Am I your rescuer, or your captor? I must say I have always wondered what you planned to do next.” Aziraphale said with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, 

“Bastard.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. The symbol for the SAS is commonly called a winged dagger, but it's actually meant to be a flaming excalibur. So obviously my brain decided Aziraphale had to have been involved. 
> 
> Privates Green and Smith, and Lance Corporals Jones and Delain (Milk Bottle) are no relation to the officers in Shadwell's Witchfinder Army, it's just one of those cosmic coincidences...
> 
> The 'imp-arse' joke is one of Terry's and I've always loved it.
> 
> Meine kleine Schlange - My little snake.
> 
> Herr Schlange - Mr Snake
> 
> Nein, meine hübsche Schlange - No, my pretty snake.
> 
> Wunderbar - Wonderful
> 
> Herr Richter - like we have 'Smith' as a name that originated from blacksmiths, 'Richter' means 'judge'.
> 
> Und so, meine entzückende Schlange - And so, my adorable snake (there's a theme here, isn't there?)
> 
> Raus! - out!
> 
> süße kleines Ding - sweet little thing
> 
> Ruf mich an - call me
> 
> As for Milk Bottle, the name 'Delain' sounds sufficiently like 'de lait', which is French for 'the milk', and that's all you would need to get the nickname 'Milk Bottle'. 
> 
> 'L Division' was the original name for what would become the SAS.
> 
> Hollymoor was the military psychiatric hospital at the time this is set.
> 
> And lastly, if you pick a rank for your fictional character, don't pick one that's bloody hard to spell... 🤦🏻♀️


End file.
